S.W. Gordon, “Penelope’s Tapestry

Penelope’s Tapestry

S.W. Gordon

Many years later, as he faced the blank computer screen, Gabriel Macondo was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to see Star Wars. In that cold, dark theater, little Gabby was transported to a galaxy far, far away and his imagination never recovered. When they emerged, Gabby squinted in the bright sunlight, and a yellow butterfly landed on his shoulder. “Would you look at that?” his father said. “I think you’ve been claimed by the Jedi.” Gabby turned his head and blew gently on the creature’s delicate wings, making them tremble like an unfurled sail. “No,” he answered, “I want to write stories.” His father flicked the insect with the back of his hand. It fluttered to the cement sidewalk, where it foundered on its side, fanning its broken wings, trying to right itself. “Hey! You hurt it.” Gabby squatted down to help the injured creature, but his father casually stomped out its life. “Don’t be such a pussy.” He grabbed the back of his son’s shirt and yanked him up to his feet. “It’s just a bug. I’ve got a whole collection on the grille of my truck.” Gabby put his head down and walked out into the hot parking lot, cowering in his father’s shadow. He only looked back once at the flattened smear that, moments before, had been so beautiful and now was gone…

“Gone! Erased!” Gabriel slammed his fist onto his wooden desk, stirring the dust and spilling his coffee. Everything he’d written the night before had somehow disappeared. “What the fuck?” He clearly remembered saving the file and had left the program open. It should still be on the goddamned screen, except it wasn’t. He scrolled through the documents and couldn’t even find the file. A whole day’s work down the drain. And not just any day’s work. He’d hammered out the final chapter of his novel like he was taking dictation from the Muses themselves. It was the most inspired writing he’d ever done. Where did it go? Gabriel took a deep breath, sat down in his leather

chair, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Could Penny have done this? It was almost unimaginable that his wife of twenty years would resort to sabotage. She’d left work only minutes before he went into his office and discovered the crime. Grabbing his phone off the charging base, he called his wife and left a voicemail: “Hey, you didn’t happen to mess with my computer last night after I went to bed?” He tried to sound casual before firing off his accusation. “I know you hate my story, but I never thought you’d stoop to this level. How dare you destroy my work?!” Well, that ought to piss her off, he thought. They’d been in a bitter feud over the subject matter of his book. Gabriel had drawn extensively from his own life experiences to create a fictionalized memoir about a dreadful woman who could never complete any task, and unfortunately the eponymous heroine resembled a bastardized version of his dear wife. To say the least, she was not amused. “It’s fiction, Penny,” he’d said for the hundredth time. “Everyone knows it’s not true.” “Then at least change her name,” she countered.

“Gabriel had drawn extensively from his own life experiences to create a fictionalized memoir about a dreadful woman who could never complete any task, and unfortunately the eponymous heroine resembled a bastardized version of his dear wife.”

32.

“But it wouldn’t make any sense. Penelope put off her suitors by unweaving her tapestry every night while waiting for Odysseus to return. You know the damn story.” Sipping his coffee, Gabriel waited for her to return the call. Each passing minute further confirmed her guilt. Perhaps he deserved it? After all, he’d broken a cardinal rule in writing:

never write about your spouse unless you’re divorced or planning to get one. The hell with it, he thought, she’ll get over it—eventually. Gabriel settled his fingers on the keyboard and began to retype everything he could remember from the day before. He comforted himself by thinking this version might even be better than the one that was lost. Surprisingly, the words seemed to flow off his fingertips and onto the screen with hardly any effort. Hours went by and still he typed, word by word, line by line, paragraph by paragraph, page by page until it was finished. This time he printed a hard copy before saving the file. Again he left the program open. Relief washed over him when he held the printed pages in his hands. He’d only lost a day, one measly day. Retiring to his bedroom, Gabriel decided to reward himself with a nap. The concentrated effort of rewriting an entire chapter from scratch had been exhausting. His mind was an empty vault, purged of all its treasure. He stretched out on top of the covers and interlaced his fingers over his abdomen like a corpse in a casket. Sleep overtook him in an instant. When he awoke several hours later, the dying sunlight slanted low through his bedroom window. No sound broke the silence of the empty house. His wife would be getting home soon, and he was looking forward to showing her that her attempt to thwart his literary efforts had been in vain. He checked his phone to make sure she didn’t try to call back or at least send a text. Nothing. Not a peep. After taking a leak and sprinkling the toilet seat for good measure, Gabriel walked back to his office with a spring in his step, whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world. But when he refreshed his computer, he was shocked to see the screen was blank. Hurriedly he looked for the file and again it was missing. He jerked open his desk drawers, looking for the hard copy, and couldn’t find it either. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the light on top of the paper shredder was glowing red. He lifted the lid of the shredder and noticed slivers of the pages he’d so recently typed. “This can’t be happening. I’m in the goddamned Twilight Zone.” Gabriel tried to imagine a logical scenario that could account for this latest provocation. Did someone break into the house? He looked around and everything else seemed to be in place. Nothing was out of order except the last chapter of his book. Could he be going crazy? Maybe he only dreamed that he’d rewritten the chapter? But what about the shreds of paper? “This is fuckin’ insane. I need a drink.” Gabriel poured himself a double shot of single-malt scotch and drank it neat. Ice somehow made it less palatable. He wanted that volatile tingling sensation in the back of his throat and the undiluted warmth in his belly. Slowly the alcohol began to work its magic. He poured himself another round and continued pacing back and forth across the room. When his wife got home from work, she slammed her purse on the kitchen counter and walked right past him without saying a word. “Did you get my message?” he asked. She kept walking and didn’t answer. He could hear her in the bathroom getting ready for bed: washing her face, brushing her teeth, emptying her bladder. Did she notice the wet seat? “So I’m getting the silent treatment?” Penny cleared her throat, as if she had something important to say, but nothing was forthcoming. She closed the bedroom curtains, got into her side of the bed and rolled over, facing the opposite wall. “I’ll take that as a yes.” After such a long nap, Gabriel wasn’t the least bit tired, so he brewed a pot of coffee and decided to rewrite the chapter once again. The alcohol hadn’t dulled him in the least. If anything, he felt less inhibited. Just like playing the piano, he thought: hit the keys in a certain order, and it will come out beautifully. This time it didn’t take him as long as the first two times, and the end result seemed just as exceptional as the others. Again he printed a hard copy, saved the file and left the program open as before, but he also sent himself an email with the file attached. “Third time’s the charm.” Gabriel didn’t want to disturb his wife, so he crashed on the couch in the living room. She was a professional sulker, and it could be days before she’d relent. In the meantime she’d stomp all over the house slamming doors, refusing to talk. Patience was his only defense. Anything else would only make things worse and prolong the incessant pouting. Once asleep, Gabriel dreamed of a peaceful meadow bathed in golden sunlight, with thousands of yellow butterflies flying like living waves on a soft wind, when suddenly his father’s old, black truck came barreling through the grass, spinning in 360s, tearing up the turf in deep ruts. All four tires spewed mud high into the air. The engine revved and roared. Black smoke billowed from the twin tailpipes. The truck plowed through the butterflies until it was caked with dead bugs and thick sludge. The windshield was completely covered. Every last butterfly was dead or dying. Abruptly the truck stopped and the driver’s door swung open. A man stepped out from behind the wheel. At first Gabriel thought it was his father—the cold, malignant smile and the dead, black eyes. But he quickly realized his mistake. It was his own face. 33.

“No, it can’t be.” Gabriel sat up on the couch. “I’m nothing like my father.” The dawn lightened the eastern sky and filtered into the living room as if through gauze. Everything appeared hazy and unclear. Gabriel stumbled into his office and looked at his empty desk. “What the hell?” The computer was gone. The pages he’d set next to it were as well. His phone and the docking station had also vanished. “I don’t understand.” He stepped back out of the room. “What’s happening?” His skin and clothes looked transparent and ethereal. He could see the floor beneath his feet. An expanding emptiness grew in his chest, like he was about to explode into nothingness. “I’ll tell you what’s happening,” Penny whispered in her sleep. He floated, ghostlike, to her bedside and hovered over her. She was curled up in the sheets like a chrysalis. Her eyes remained closed but her lips continued to move. “You’re dead, asshole,” she said. “You never finished your precious book—and you never will.”